Wrong
by IaMcHrIsSi
Summary: It just feels so wrong to sit in this empty hospital room.


**AN: This is my first Elementary story. It's really angsty, but I hope you like it =)**

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It was so wrong.

That was all Sherlock could think while sitting in this empty room. It was so wrong. This shouldn't be happening. He had promised her he'd never let Moriarity hurt her. He'd promised it. And now …

… now he sat in a hospital waiting room while Joan Watson, his partner, his best friend, was in surgery. She had looked so small, so fragile when the doctors had started fussing over her. So breakable. It was wrong. Just wrong. Watson wasn't breakable, neither was she fragile. But in that moment...

He had been at the airport, saying goodbye to Irene. Irene had had no idea he thought her dead. She had left, leaving a note that said she was breaking up with him. It had been Moriarity who had taken the note and made it look like she was dead. Irene had never known.

They had had a few long conversations about themselves, their relationship and Moriarity. Then Irene had decided that she needed space, like she put it, and went to visit her mother. Sherlock had driven her to the airport.

He still couldn't believe she was alive. He also couldn't believe she left him. She had broken up with him. She was alive, but still...

It had given Sherlock a few things to think about. He wasn't over Irene, and it would take it's time to really lay that chapter of his life to st, but now that he knew she was alive he was able to focus on the future. Talking to her had given him a bit closure, the possibility to maybe one day start something new.

And then he had gotten home and found Watson. She had been lying on the floor, covered with blood and barely breathing. She hadn't been conscious and for a few horrible seconds Sherlock had thought her dead. He still remembered how he kneeled down beside her, checked for her pulse and then the incredible relief when he found it. After that, it was all a blur. He must have called Gregson sometime, because he remembered him suddenly being there, as well as a few medics. The had pulled her from him, and then he couldn't see her because they were blocking his view.

He wasn't able to remember the drive to the hospital, only that they had brought her away and he had suddenly been left alone in this empty room. It wasn't empty, not really, but there was nothing in here that meant something. A few chairs, a few posters on the wall from where pretty, blond women with flawless teeth and heartless eyes smiled down to him.

Her blood was still on his fingers. He stared down at his hands. They were crimson, a really dark shade of it. Maybe he should wash his hands, but he couldn't bring himself to stand up. So he stayed were he was while images of Watson lying on the floor in a see of blood flashed through his mind.

She couldn't die. She wasn't allowed to. She was the only thing between him and madness, the only one out there who really knew him. Joan Watson had seen him at his lowest, and she hadn't fled. Instead, she had stayed. She had become a friend, his best, and probably only real friend. He liked teaching her things, and she really liked learning. They were a perfect fit, he, the (borderline insane) genius, and she, the clever doctor who grounded him. She was much more than somebody to bounce ideas of. She was ... she was Watson. He couldn't really describe what she was, only that she was and that he would never forgive himself if she died. It would be hard enough to live with the knowledge that she had gotten hurt because of him. The M, it had been there. Moriarity had done it himself, like Sherlock had thought it happened with Irene. Only that Irene was fine and safe on the way to visit her mother in England while Watson was in a hospital and would maybe not survive this night. He would find Moriarity. He would find him, and this time there would be nothing holding him back. He would kill the man for what he had done to Watson. He deserved it.

He stared at the dried blood on his hands. It was wrong. Moriarity should target him, not her. Not Watson. He had thought it to be possible, to protect her from him. He had promised it to her.

He shook his head and did nothing to stop the tears that started spilling down his cheeks.

He had broken his promise.


End file.
